


From Stones, Bread

by AvatarofJord



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort Food, F/M, Gen, How Do I Tag, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Smut, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shapeshifting, Vorta - Freeform, Walk Into A Bar, Weyoun-centric, but like as a parlor trick for shits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvatarofJord/pseuds/AvatarofJord
Summary: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Matthew 4:4)Weyoun 6 adapting to life on DS9. A snippet.Or Weyoun 6 as a metaphor for Christ





	From Stones, Bread

**Author's Note:**

> This was not the fic I intended to be my first fic in this fandom. and it was a lot funnier when I started. and then I wanted to explore Weyoun juxtaposed against Abrahamic religious myth. Thanks, Obama. So here we go, My first fanfic in the DS9 fandom. 
> 
> Credit to: Howelleheir and the Dominionese Resource for the bit of (I am sure) butchered dominionese used in this fic. I do blame them entirely for my new found place in Vorta-hell and if you haven't read their works and have yet found yourself here, i suggest you go do so. (how did you even get here before going through Fallen White Doors? do you even Vorta Bro?)

_This is pointless._

That's the thought constantly wandering through his mind; crawling back to the forefront of his consciousness on a thousand legs like some kind of nefarious centipede. He's standing in his newly appointed quarters on Deep Space Nine and staring at his form in the bedroom mirror. Head tilting to look himself over from different angles, assessing and invariably coming no closer to understanding what he should do. 

Should he black line his eyes like the females do on occasion? 

Take off the uniform jacket?

Change his hair?

“Peel my entire face off and walk around with my skull on display maybe? Oh, I'm sure the locals would just love that.” He sighs, words spoken into an empty room  as a hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He wants to fit in, at least as much as a displaced Vorta can. And Barring that perhaps simply become unnoticeable. It's the diplomat in him. As it stands now Weyoun 6 is a subject of conversation everywhere he goes, and what he's over heard has not been…uplifting.

_Smug, rat-faced little creature._

_Vorta, can't trust them, that one especially!_

_Have you smelled it? It's disgusting!_

“Fools have no idea how lucky they are that I'm here.”

He's been debriefed, and what a humiliating process that had been. Sitting in a cold Federation interrogation room, spilling the secrets of the Founders, of the Dominion. Weeping into the table as they continued to ask more and more invasive questions. Odo commanding him again and again.

_**“Answer Weyoun.”** _

_“Please...no more. Bali abeiyama”_

_**“I said, answer the question.”** _

He shudders at the memory. A most undignified display, but at least it was behind him. Now he whittles his time away, code breaking, strategizing, confirming targets. Trying not to think of how many of Damar’s people he’s consigned to death along with the Dominion’s own faithful. Recently the destruction of a ketracel white facility and half a Cardassian military order had given everyone on the station a sense of hope. 

It was the perfect time to attempt to integrate with the rest of the population.

“Now if only I could figure out how to look a little bit less…myself.” Or less Weyoun 5, as it were. If the people that called Deep Space 9 home were aware that he was a clone of the last Vorta ambassador, and defective at that, they certainly hadn't shown it. 

Glancing at himself again he figures taking off the jacket would be the least labor intense change to make. It makes him appear more substantial, hiding his narrow chest and slim waist under it's bulk. He's not sure if the blue and gold shirt underneath is flattering, but he does like it, tucked in as it is. The high waist of his pants does make him appear longer legged than he is, and lean. Dr. Bashir is considered a specimen of particularly attractiveness to a slew of the species on the station, so perhaps slimness is not so bad a feature to possess. Those gifted with physical beauty do tend to be more tolerated. 

He recalls seeing Jake roll some of his sleeves, and the Chief, but upon attempting it realises the stiffness of his blue shirt doesn’t allow for it. Unbuttoning a few of the fastenings at the neck is also quickly set aside, his throat is long and slender, but exposing that much of his chest feels scandalous. It makes him think of Damar, of Dukat, of the sensitive spoon that would be exposed if Weyoun were a Cardassian and a blush steals across his nose. 

“Well, taking off the jacket is a start.” 

The next part of his plan is a little more complicated. Usually, he eats in the Replimat. It’s free and as he now works at the behest of the Federation, free is about what he can afford. But tonight is going to be different. It’s 18:00, most of the shops are winding down for the evening, and Quark’s will be picking up. Drinking, darts, holosuite entertainment, it’s a veritable hub of camaraderie and entertainment. _Dabo_ , he thinks with a smile. Yes, that will do nicely.

The Promenade is bustling as it usually is, and he can hear the cheers from Quarks well before he steps off the turbolift. Starfleet personnel, various Bajoran shopkeepers and customers, crewmen from supply freighters, all gathered, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces. Sitting at the table just inside the door are Ezri Dax, Chief O’brien, and the good Dr. Bashir. Weyoun considers greeting them, the inviting smile on the Trill’s face says she, at least, would respond politely, but her companions are another story. Bashir has the decency not to look openly hostile, but the Chief has the face of a man who has just stepped in something regrettable. How unfortunate. He smiles at them anyway before taking a seat at the bar, ankles crossed and hands folded primly. Of course he can’t help but overhear the conversation that starts the moment his back is turned. Good ears.

 _“I don’t care what they say. I don’t trust ‘im.”_ Chief O’brien, not surprisingly. 

_“Odo vouched for him. He’s given us a lot of good information. Besides he’s a whole different Weyoun.”_  Dr. Bashir, a rare voice of sanity. Likely trying to win points with the lovely Counselor sitting on his right. 

_“An’ that excuses ‘im? Not in my book. Should be locked up, not flouncin’ about on the Promenade.”_

_“Has Keiko ever told you your xenophobia is ugly?”_ He can detect the barely concealed anger present in the Trill’s voice. 

_“I’m not xenophobic, I like you an Worf. I just don’t trust the Vorta; that one in particular.”_

_“You don’t much care for Cardassians either.”_ Weyoun turns the jab over in his mind a few times. He wonders if this might be why Bashir never attempted to court the tailor, whose interest in the doctor is more than obvious. The interpersonal relationships of the denizens surrounding him are always confusing, and he finds, not for the first time, that he misses governmental politics.

 _“We’re at war, Julian. They’re the enemy.”_ How trite.

_“How can a whole race be your enemy?”_

Weyoun is eagerly waiting to hear the Chief’s response when an orange hand slams against the bar in front of him. He jumps, startled, and looks straight up into the amused countenance of the station’s resident bartender.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop.” Quark says, head tilted with a smirk that exposes all of the Ferengi’s sharp teeth. 

“More rude than conversing behind someone’s back?” Weyoun asks, head tilting in the opposite direction. He’s sure they look ridiculous. The decibel level in the bar has dropped, people turning away from their conversations to observe the exchange. Weyoun knows that Ferengi ears are at least as good as his, knows that Quark must have heard the officers behind him.

“Maybe? Maybe not. But sitting at a bar and not ordering anything. That, my friend is a cardinal offense. What’ll you have?”

Weyoun shakes his head, ears going back to listening behind him, but it seems Quark’s little display didn't go unnoticed. The humans are no longer discussing him, instead chattering on about their insipid Alamo program. He narrows his eyes at Quark, who rewards the look with a greasy smile.

After a brief standoff Weyoun rolls his eyes and orders, “Kanar, I suppose.” 

“Spent too long in the company of Cardassians.” Quark says, his disgust evident. Weyoun supposes he understands, the thick viscous texture of kanar isn’t a favorite. It does have the benefit of reminding him of Damar however, and in a place so hostile a little familiarity is a treasure. If there is a wistful quality to that familiarity, well, nothing is perfect.

“It’s an acquired taste.” He says after a moment, diplomatic smile back in place. 

“What if I told you I had something you wouldn’t just tolerate, but would actually like?”  

Weyoun says nothing before Quark disappears, ostensibly to go retrieve whichever mystery beverage he thinks the Vorta will enjoy. Honestly, it's like none of them listen to a thing he says, he knows he's told plenty of people about his poor sense of taste. But perhaps he can't fault a Ferengi for attempting to acquire a new customer. 

Said Ferengi returns moments later, smile wide and more than a little smug when he sets a glass in front of Weyoun. It’s a small tumbler, and the liquid inside is viscous and white. Weyoun lifts it to his nose but can’t detect much in the way of smell. 

“Should i ask what it is?”

“Why don’t you try it and tell me what it is.”

“You do know I'm immune to most poisons?”

“I wouldn’t poison you in my own bar. Too obvious. Drink it.”

Weyoun does, a small sip first. The flavor isn’t so much a taste as an explosion, familiar, bittersweet and delicious and he slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the near shriek that comes out. Kava nut milk. He looks back down into the glass, unable to believe it. 

“Haha, see. I knew you’d like it.” Quark all but crows, self satisfied. He sets another item on the bar, a small bowl and Weyoun could weep at what he sees. Rippleberries, small, red, and fresh, by the smell of them, more than a dozen. He knows none of the replicators on the station have the formula for either of the two miraculous items sitting in front of him. Oh he wants to eat one, but he’d have to take his hand away from his mouth, and damn if the decibel level in the bar hasn’t dropped to near silence. They’re all watching him. He finds he doesn’t care. The temptation is too great and he plucks one red berry from the bowl and pops it quickly into his mouth. Tart! Perfectly tart, and familiar. 

“Oh. Oh, how did you ever…”

“You're not the only one with contacts in the Gamma Quadrant. Both of these are straight from Kurill Prime.” 

Kurill Prime. The Vorta home world. _Some place I'll never see again._ It's a maudlin thought, but no less valid and he feels his eyes fill just before he pops another berry into his mouth. It’s a small blessing and the desire to down the entire bowl greedily is almost more than he can bare.  Quark is still standing in front of him, still watching him eagerly and another thought occurs to him.

“How much?” Weyoun asks, and if his voice trembles he hopes at least the Ferengi won’t comment on it. He doesn’t have much, and he knows better than to expect that the Ferengi has offered these to him out of charity.

“Well, you know, rippleberries and kava nuts, they’re not so easy to get ahold of. And keeping them fresh? Even harder. And then there’s having the nuts made into-”

“How. Much.” 

“You don’t have enough latinum, but there is something else you could give me.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have a shipment coming in at 22:00. What it is, isn’t important. What is important however is that it isn’t detected by a certain resident head of station security.”

The bottom drops out of Weyoun’s stomach the same time he jumps out of his seat. He stands so quickly the barstool wobbles and falls with a loud crash. There is silence throughout the bar, even the Dabo tables are quiet and Weyoun knows he's now gone from curiosity to spectacle. How unfortunate, but even so it doesn't quell his indignation.

“I will not hurt Odo!”

“I don’t need you to hurt him. Just keep him busy. That’s easy enough for you, right?”

“I will not! You! You want me to distract a Founder, a GOD from his duty?! And for what?! For...How dare you!” the tears that had been balanced on delicate eyelids spill over the rim and run down his cheeks. That this person, _this creature_ would think him so weak as to trade his God for a taste of home is beyond insulting. It’s infuriating, humiliating, and what’s worse is he’s been put on a stage for half the station to see. He’s sure that had been Quark’s intent, to make a fool of him so publicly. 

_...This is pointless…_

He turns on his heel and makes sure not to glance at the seated officers as he leaves, he’s not sure how he would handle their faces. His diplomat’s smile feels so far away, lost somewhere between his quarters and the bar, or maybe he left it on Cardassia. He wishes he’d at least kept his jacket on, because now he feels exposed, vulnerable and he knows that feeling will only intensify the farther from the bar he gets. Prey fleeing the sharp jaws of a predator. He’s almost to the exit when a small firm hand catches him by the elbow. 

“Let. Me. Go.” He seethes as he rounds on whoever has the audacity to try and keep him from leaving with what’s left of his dignity. Ezri Dax’s kind eyes keep him from ripping his arm away from her. She doesn’t look at him long before she turns her eyes on Quark with a glare.

“I’ll pay for Weyoun’s meal.” She says, firm.

“Ezri…”

“Not another word Quark. What you just did, it’s mean, it’s mean for no reason.” She sounds livid, and betrayed, and that is a curious reaction. A welcome one if he’s honest, it means not everyone enjoyed his suffering. He sighs and gently pats the Trill’s hand, the one still holding his elbow.

“Miss Dax. Lieutenant. Please, I’d really prefer to just go back to my quarters.”

**“Not so quick, Weyoun.”**

The voice stops him, like the voice of a God should, and it takes everything he has not to drop to his knees because he hadn’t seen Odo in the bar. Hadn’t heard him speaking to any of the other patrons. And yet the voice is in front of him, not entering from outside the bar, or coming down the stairs. Quark grins again, and it says that he’s not going to be in trouble with Lieutenant Dax anymore. He looks like a magician getting ready for the big reveal. He turns the small tumbler still resting on the bar until, to Weyoun’s shock, he can see the mouth it’s formed.

A moment later and Odo is sitting perched upon the bar one hand still shaped like the glass holding the kava nut milk. 

“Founder!” Weyoun squeaks when he can remember how to greet Odo, and he ducks his head in supplication. Of course it’s the wrong thing to say, but old habits do die hard. “Odo.”

It takes another minute for it to register that, if Odo was the cup, then he overheard everything. Quark isn’t sloppy, not like that, Weyoun has observed him many times, shaking bottles and smacking chairs, feeble attempts to flush Odo out of hiding. No this was purposeful. This was a test. A chance to show his devotion to, if not the Federation than at least Odo. And to show it publicly. And from the smug look on his Founder’s face he must have...

“I passed. I…” 

His mirth is short lived, however, when it again hits him that Odo was the cup. **ODO WAS THE CUP!** The cup holding the kava nut milk. The cup he drank from.

“I put my mouth on you! I put my...”

The horror is real and for a moment he thinks he’s going to faint. He put his mouth on a Founder! Without permission! He touched his lips to a God! His vision is darkening at the edges and he feels light headed, sways in place. His knees, he should be on his knees, what he’s done is...His chest feels about ready to explode, Vorta aren’t made to feel so many things at once...How can he begin to ask forgiveness for such a transgression….

But Odo is laughing, he’s amused, not angry. He jumps down from his perch on the bar, no flourish, all business, and comes to stand next to Lieutenant Dax. The hand that isn’t currently shaped like a cup grips Weyoun by the shoulder to steady him. He knows Odo hates it, hates him for it, but the reverence that floods Weyoun at the touch is inescapable and he calms because of it. Its biological reality, not his fault at all. He’s made this way. 

“Did you think I didn’t know how you were being treated on the station?” Odo asks, mouth turning down in a frown, head cocked knowingly to the side. He looks exasperated, like a father scolding a naughty child. 

“Such things...I expected they’d be beneath your notice.” Weyoun stutters. 

“Hrmph. You have a lot to learn about what I take an interest in. I’m a Chief of Security, and I take the security of everyone on this station very seriously. It wouldn’t do to allow you to become an easy target.”

“Of course, forgive me for-” The hand moves from his shoulder and cups his right ear, and its _rapture_. A sigh leaves his lips and the mantra starts in his head as his eyes slip closed. _My ear is for the Founders. I hear only their wisdom._ It’s a blessing he knows he isn’t worthy of, could never be worthy of. Bestowed because he passed this test. Bestowed because Odo has no idea what the gesture actually means. 

“Weyoun, there’s nothing to forgive.”

“As you say.” _Yes Founder, I hear your wisdom._

Odo shakes his head at him again.“Hrmph. Well I think we’ve made enough of a spectacle of ourselves for one day. If you’d be so kind.”

He gestures to his left hand, the one still shaped like a cup. The one still holding what's left of the kava nut milk. Weyoun’s violet eyes look from the cup back to Odo’s face.

“Founder, you can’t really mean for me to…”

“I paid Quark for the bottle and the first shipment of rippleberries. As I don’t eat I figure they might as well go to someone who can enjoy them. It was expensive.” 

Weyoun swallows audibly and glances for the first time since Odo walked over to him to the quiet presence of Ezri Dax. She doesn’t look angry anymore, more serene, perhaps even understanding. It’s much more attractive than the confused faces of her friends still seated at the table. She nods encouragingly, and, under her supportive gaze, Weyoun finds the strength to reach for the cup. 

He’s not sure why he’s expecting it to feel different, but the glass feels the same as it had on the bar. As he brings it to his mouth he sees Odo’s liquid body stretch to stay connected and the lightheadedness returns. This is the hand of a God. His God. The only one left to him now that he’s forsaken the others, betrayed the rest of the Founders, the Dominion. His chest is tightening, and a different mantra is running through his mind now. _Betrayer, betrayer, betrayer-_

No.

The war is wrong, the fear is misguided. There is another way. He is helping his Gods. 

Odo will help him. Odo will not leave him in the dark, will not allow him to falter. 

They WILL find a better way, for the Founders, for the Dominion, together.

The kava nut milk sloshes gently, pulpy and perfect, as he tips the cup to drink. One sip, and then two and the glass is empty. The flavor lingers along his taste buds, the milk thick and coating. It tastes like a sacrament. Like an oath. Odo retrieves his appendage, shrinking it and reforming his hand, and it takes more self control than he’d like to admit for Weyoun not to offer to lick the residual milk directly from Odo’s palm.

 _From reticent to wanton in a matter of moments, Morva?_ It’s Damar’s voice that chides him, but in his head its gentle and amused, and he misses the Cardassian keenly. But that is for later, when he’s returned to his quarters and is alone again. 

“Well, thank you, Odo, for the um...drink.”

“Don’t mention it.” The way he says it, Weyoun is fairly sure Odo means it literally. “You will have to use a real glass for the next one, I do have other duties to attend to.”

“Of course.” He bows in the tradition of his people, but straightens quicker than might be proper. He can’t completely override his biology, but he will endeavor not to make his Founder uncomfortable. 

Odo nods to him and leaves quickly glancing back only once, “Oh and don’t let Quark charge you for those rippleberries. He’s been paid.”

“I would never!!” Quark gasps, false affront apparently the signal for the rest of the bar to finally, finally turn back to their own business. The decibel level begins to climb again, conversations starting back up, Dabo tables spinning. 

Through all of it Ezri has stood silently waiting, and Weyoun turns back to her smiling face with a smile of his own. 

“Thank you Lieutenant. If you hadn’t been holding me up a bit ago, I think I might have actually embarrassed myself by fainting to the floor.” He says and lets a light blush wash over his face. It isn’t as intense as if he were really blushing, really embarrassed, but he does know it gives his face an innocence that prompts most people into dropping their guard. 

“I’m just glad it turned out to be Odo. Did…” She pauses for a moment, concern filling her gaze and she places a gentle hand on his arm. “Did you still want to go back to your quarters? I’d be happy to walk with you if you did. We could talk a bit on the way. There hasn’t really been a good chance for that has there? I probably should have been trying to get you in for a session. I mean, leaving the Dominion, coming to Deep Space Nine, that’s all pretty heavy and...I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

What a splendid young woman. The longer she carries on the wider and more real Weyoun feels his smile become. 

The chime from the Dabo table catches his ear. 

“Lieutenant-” He starts but is quickly interrupted when she holds up a hand.

“Ezri, just Ezri, I’m off duty.”

“Ezri. Do you like Dabo?”

“Oh I’m not really sure. I mean, Curzon and Jadzia were both more Tongo players.”

“Ezri, I didn’t ask about Curzon or Jadzia. I asked if you liked Dabo.” He’s using his most diplomatic and placating voice, leaving the emphasis in all the right places. 

“Oh, I…”

“Weyoun 5 was quite taken with the game, but I am not my predecessor and am eager to see if it holds the same interest for me.” He doesn’t wait for her response, instead offering his arm, gentlemanly with a sharp smirk on his face. “Most Weyouns have been known to love games.”

“You know what, why not.” She says, smile mirroring his as she slips a hand into his elbow, allowing herself to be lead by a new friend. A quick stop at the bar for drinks, Kava nut milk for Weyoun and Spring Wine for Ezri, and Weyoun is leading her to the table.

“When we’re done with Dabo maybe you can show me how to play darts.” He suggests and isn’t exactly sure what strikes Ezri as being so hilarious she nearly doubles over laughing.

“That would be pointless. I’m terrible at darts.” She says when she stops laughing.

“I’m beginning to learn things are seldom pointless. And let’s be honest. You have to be better than me.”

“You’re on Weyoun. Maybe Julian will give us some pointers.” 

“Marvelous.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended as part of a series, however i'm an unreliable writer and we may never see the rest of those works.


End file.
